The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

Ambushed.

And fraught, the gendarmerie couldn’t help me. They said I’d gifted them to him. They had proof. Text messages that came from my cell phone, saying those exact words. Joshua was clever. He’d been ribbing me, he called it. Teasing me about ‘gifting’ my treasures and like the lovestruck idiot I was, I played along by text, waiting months for these so-called buyers to pay. By the time I realized what he’d done, he was on the arm of another woman. Antiques vanished. And those texts came back to taunt me.

The grand piano once owned by Fania Fénelonis yours! A gift from me to you. Love Anouk xxx

It was the cold, calculating way he did it that struck fear in me – the thought that a man could fake a love like ours broke something inside of me. I begged, yelled, pleaded for the gendarmes to listen to me, but they gave me a bored stare, and asked me to come back with more proof, like I should do their job for them.

Joshua and I had planned to pool our resources and were going to buy the best antiques, build a museum, so the world could clap eyes on such rare beauty, and not just people who could afford such luxuries. In order to do that, we had needed to sell some bigger pieces to fund it, and then source the most famous, the most illustrious of what France had to offer. Little did I know, he was selling them to amass his fortune… He’d played me like a piano, knowing instinctively I’d fall for it because it was a lifelong dream of mine to open a museum for cherishables.

The thing that hurt the most was that I did love him. When it all came to light I realized I had been in love with a ghost. Joshua wasn’t who he portrayed himself to be. The man I loved didn’t exist. The one who held my hand as we slept, or woke me with butterfly kisses, was a charade. So if I held myself at arm’s length from the world, that’s why, and I wasn’t going to be apologetic about it.

Sadly, Joshua was still working the antique circuit, so I ran into him often, which felt like a stab wound to the chest.

Lilou gave my hand a pat, dragging me back to the present moment. “Three weeks might be my limit with a guy, but that’s because I haven’t found anyone who makes me want more.” She lifted a shoulder. “I know what that crétin did, and the fallout that remains. I’d strangle him if I knew I could bury his body and get away with it.” Her eyes blazed at the thought. “All I’m suggesting is ease yourself back into the dating game with a few one-night stands. Pick a rugged type, one that has commitment-phobe written all over him, and go from there…”

“Lilou! I couldn’t do that. Non. I need to know more about a man before I let him sprawl all over my cotton sheets…”

She wrinkled her nose. “Oh God, because they’re some kind of special antique material? Fine, swap the sheets for a cheap supermarket brand for one night!” Her voice rose with every inflection.

A waiter hovered close by, refilling the wineglass of a woman at the table beside ours, and overfilled it as he concentrated hard on us out of the corner of his eye. Ruby red wine spilled over, staining the white tablecloth. The woman gasped, and the waiter wrenched his gaze away, apologizing profusely to her.

Lilou jerked a thumb in his direction. “Prime example: nice taut derrière, sleepy eyes, and sensual full lips. Just picture those buff arms tangled around you, the bed sheets…”

This time the waiter knocked over the woman’s wineglass. Burgundy liquid spilled quick and fast into the woman’s white-skirted lap. Lilou gave them a cursory glance. “OK, maybe not him, he’s too clumsy.” His face colored scarlet.

“Stop!” I hissed, struggling to remain composed. “I see your point and I’ll take it under advisement.”

She swallowed back half a glass of her wine. “I hate it when you say that.”

***

Lilou and I stood out front of the little antique shop, languid after lunch, and hugged our goodbyes. “See you tonight,” I said.

“Actually you won’t.” Lilou gave me an elfish grin. “I’m off to follow a musical festival around Normandy with Claude. I thought I might do a collection of jewelry based on sound. It’s a research trip.”

“What?” My big-sister instinct kicked in. “You’ve only just got back. You and Rainier were only going away for a week. It’s been three and now Rainier is gone, and there’s someone called Claude, and you’re going to follow a music festival? I thought you were doing a line of sunset-inspired jewelry? No, Lilou! You’re supposed to be studying. At least try and build up your online site so we have ammunition if Papa finds out.”

She let out a long harrumph as if I was the veritable thorn in her side. I could guess what was coming next…

“Anouk, you only live once!”

Voila!

Once Lilou had her sights set on something, she was a force to be reckoned with. Even though her life lacked direction, I had a feeling she’d always be OK by using her charm and quick wit. She was irresistible when she flashed her radiant smile. Deep down she was a minx, but I loved her so, even though she added an element of drama to my already busy life and created the worry I carried in my heart when she was off on one of her adventures. I was desperate for anyone or anything to slow her down and keep her in one spot, long enough that she’d plant roots and stay.

I dreaded another call from my papa, asking after her. I’d have to cross my fingers, and lie yet again, knowing eventually it would all come crashing down around me.

A part of me envied her; I was never that frivolous, never had been. My days revolved around work, sourcing antiques, investigating their history, traveling near and far for estate sales and auctions, hunting through bric-a-brac for gems at flea markets and vintage fairs. That didn’t leave much time for anything else. My heart and soul went into my business. I kept myself coiled tight against any uncertainty that came my way.

I shook the familiar feeling of angst away before it could settle, blackening my mood.

“When Papa phones me what do you suggest I say?”

With a groan, she said, “Tell him I’m at the library! Or at study club, or out with a lawyer…who cares.” Typical flippant Lilou style.

“He’s going to find out eventually and then we’ll both be in trouble.”

She laughed, high and loud. “What can he do?”

“He can cut off your allowance…”

Her face paled. “True, so lie good.” She kissed me goodbye, and stole away. “I’ll be back soon!” The words bubbled above, blowing toward me in the Seine-scented breeze.

I watched her retreating frame, heading off into the sunset like an actress from a movie, her long hair undulating and her step jaunty.

From the corner of my eye I sensed someone watching me. I turned, hoping it wasn’t another uninvited customer. A man sat at one of the benches along the promenade. He was wearing chinos, with a tight white T-shirt. His lips curved into a smile when we made eye contact. He was double-take gorgeous with his blond hair swept back like he’d just stepped off a windblown boat, and his aviator sunglasses reflected my own surprised gaze back.

For one brief moment, I considered Lilou’s advice: go out with a man, any man, and see what happened. He moved to stand, like he was going to approach me, and the idea suddenly seemed ridiculous. I bustled into my shop as quickly as possible and locked the door, peeking out through the lace curtain. He was still watching, an amused smirk on his face. In one swift movement he stood and waved, sending me scurrying back into the dark recesses of the shop. Mon Dieu, he knew I was spying on him!

For one unguarded minute the stranger with the athletic physique and gorgeous face had intrigued me. Perhaps I had too much wine at lunchtime. I bustled around keeping busy, and pushed any silly notions from my mind. There was work to do.

Chapter Four (#ulink_729d86e6-0d86-5b43-9e20-ecc02e875868)

In the Luxembourg Gardens tulips popped their yellow heads up as if to say hello. They were such happy flowers, and in abundance now spring had sprung. It was peak time in the park; tourists and locals alike perched on the side of fountains, reading, chatting, or staring off into space. Checkered picnic rugs were spread out, topped with baskets laden with lunchtime feasts.

Normally, I’d sit and people watch, eavesdrop, and imagine who these strangers were and what brought them to Paris, but today I didn’t have a moment to spare. I was meeting someone with some pertinent information about an upcoming auction, and I had to move fast. My sources were varied, some were a touch shady, and others were part of the traditional antique establishment. They confided in me, because they trusted me, and knew I only wanted the best for French antiques, and I paid them in return, in a multitude of ways.

Sitting under the shade of a chestnut tree was Dion. A sixty-something-year-old contact of mine who gave me information about antiques and my competitors. We’d become close over the years, and he treated me like a daughter in some ways. When he had arrived in France he had little more than the clothes he was wearing, and now he had a nice apartment, and a steady income selling certain information.

His passion, though, was refugees. He gave a ton of money to charities, and often flitted off for aide work during the winter months. Dion had no idea I knew about his charity involvement but I’d done checks on him, like he’d done on me. It was the way the circuit worked. I knew he’d come from a war-torn country, and got out just in time to save his life, but sadly most of his family were unable to leave. It was why, I think, he was always chasing deals, something to keep the loneliness at bay. Something to help him forget at least for a little while.

“Anouk.” He nodded solemnly, as was his way.

“Bonjour, Dion. What have you got for me?” We always got straight to the point; Dion wasn’t a fan of small talk.

“An arcane scroll originally from Antibes. It’s damaged because of its age, but still, it’s so rare you could name your price if you sold it on. The seller just wants it gone. He inherited a bunch of antiques from his grandfather but doesn’t hold them in any esteem. You know what the youth of today are like…”

Like Lilou, I thought with a smile. “Sure, sure. So what’s the deal? Who’s up against me?” You had to be quick in this business, or risk losing out. Everyone had their own ways and means of getting there first.

Dion shook his head, the thick black shock of hair not moving an inch, so weighed down with gel, which shone silver in the sunlight. His face was lined with fatigue. I often wondered if he pushed himself too far to the detriment of his own health in the business of gathering information. He veered away from society types, and old money, having little respect for those born with the so-called silver spoon in their mouths. “So far only Joshua is sniffing around. That guy has a nose like a bloodhound. He’s always one step ahead.”

My pulse sped up at the mention of Joshua who like a contagion seemed to spread far and wide, knocking people from their perches. Dion knew my background with Joshua because I’d asked him for help trying to get the piano back from his clutches. To no avail. Still, Dion had tried hard and his loyalty had meant a lot in such a dark time. On the antique circuit, ruthlessness was a key characteristic, and emotion and affection was kept out of it, or very well hidden, so Dion’s generosity of spirit had touched me. Around town I was known as the eccentric one because I often fell in love with a piece that had only sentimental value, and bid on objects other dealers deemed worthless.

I joined Dion on the wooden bench with a heavy sigh. “Joshua, again? I wish people weren’t so easily fooled by his charm.” But how could they not be? He was smooth, and suave and utterly beguiling. Lots of practice at wooing people to suit his needs.

Dion clasped his hands over his middle. “The problem with Joshua is that it’s all a sport to him. He’ll win, and use whatever cunning faculty he can. He will get bored eventually, and move on, Anouk. People like him always do.”

In the distance a mother and child held hands, taking tiny steps across the grass. “I hope so. Somewhere far far away.” I wished he wasn’t a shadow everywhere I went. “So any tips on how I convince the grandson to sell to me?” Already my brain was spinning with ideas. How to secure the scroll, who I could get to value it – it’d have to be an expert in the field – and then finally who I could sell it to. I knew a woman who’d have the right provisions in place, a humidity-controlled room, the right kind of display case to prevent dust, to protect the delicate parchment. Madame Benoit, who lived near the Champs-Élysées, would love such a thing. She was a fifty-something Parisian who loved collecting rare pieces.